


The Campaign

by SaintOlga



Series: The Twink of the Revolutionary Set [2]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintOlga/pseuds/SaintOlga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In all the avenues of his life, George Washington is moving forward, sometimes far more than others, because he is never afraid to admit the lack of knowledge, and to accept advice, and to learn from those who know more even if their position is less. So in the secrets of the night, an art and a craft he previously only dabbled in, he now accepts Hamilton as his teacher.</p><p>And what a teacher he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Campaign

In all the avenues of his life, George Washington is moving forward, sometimes far more than others, because he is never afraid to admit the lack of knowledge, and to accept advice, and to learn from those who know more even if their position is less. So in the secrets of the night, an art and a craft he previously only dabbled in, he now accepts Hamilton as his teacher.

And what a teacher he is.

By day, his aide-de-camp is diligent and determined, never giving an inch, always primed to fight, be it the British, or the Congress, or at times, his commander himself. By night, he slips into sweet submission, pliant under the touch, open to any desire. But his submission is as determined as his daily strive towards victory and rank, and he doesn't allow Washington any hesitation, any retreat, only steady advance towards pleasure.

At night, Hamilton is given the command Washington can't afford to bestow on him during the day; at night, he trains his general in the art of love as their troops are trained by day in the art of war. Hamilton puts him through his paces mercilessly, forces pleasure from his body with nimble fingers and determined lips, reduces him to shakes, to tears, to pleading - things Washington hasn't allowed himself in years; wouldn't have given under torture other than this, sweet and generous and relentless.

"Alexander," he whispers into the darkness, fingers trembling in the soft hair in the last attempt not to grasp, to pull, to hold. "Alexander, my boy," he moans when skilled fingers roll his balls, clever mouth ghosts over his cock, teasing him as Hamilton has brought him to the edge more than once already, but never over it. "Alexander," he tries sternly, but this tone of voice only brings out a laugh, a gasp of hot air over the leaking tip. And from this, he has to surrender; to give up his reserve; to grasp the boy's hair tight, to bring his mouth where he needs it so much, to take what he keeps himself from taking, what Alexander teaches him to take.

He is a good student, though; he learns fast.

So the night comes when the candles are blown, and Hamilton slides under the blankets next to him, palms and feet cold, but lips warm as they seek Washington’s mouth, blindly tickling his cheek. But instead of letting Hamilton do the work, kiss and lick and pet, Washington rolls over, pinning the smaller man to the bed, their lips half an inch apart but not touching. He can hear the gasp; he can feel the body straining under him. When Hamilton tilts his head up again, to meet his mouth, he moves away, just a fraction, but enough to get away from the kiss.

Alexander makes a small sound in the back of his throat, confused and surprised and delighted. Washington is pleased with himself.

He runs a hand down his lover’s side, tracing the contours of his body in the dark. Back up, over his shoulder, to the neck, to the cheek, to the small ear under soft locks. Alexander moves fluidly under his touch, tries for a kiss again, to no avail. Washington kisses his cheek instead, once, twice, close to his lips but never on them.

Hamilton, so used to be in command already, after just a handful of nights, presses a hand to his jaw, tries to pull him into the kiss he insists on. Washington holds on, kissing the palm instead, and a slender wrist, and the fingers. Catches a thumb with his mouth. Salt, and powder, and a hint of ink; calluses from the quill. He knows Alexander’s hands so well already. Wants to know more.

Shouldn’t a student engage with the subject that interests him? He does, with all the diligence he always applies to the task - the same diligence Hamilton demonstrates during the day. He kisses the palm, nips at the tips of the fingers, licks and bites and sucks gently. Alexander breathes harder at that, and his fingers tremble, reach out to meet Washington’s lips, to trace them, to push inside, to play chase with his tongue.

Their nights are short, and the pleasures hurried sometimes, chased by the need of sleep; but Washington takes his time now, as if nothing else is planned for tonight, until Hamilton becomes restless under him, and his breath becomes sounds, and the sounds become a word, “Sir…”

The word, so familiar by day, so mundane, now sends a welcome shiver along Washington’s back. But he doesn’t change his pace until Alexander, impatient now, frees his fingers from his mouth and reaches out again, trying to capture his cheek, his head, tug him closer. Not even thinking, Washington grabs his narrow wrist and presses into the bed over his head.

A sharp intake of air, and Alexander arches up, into him.

Washington remembers his soft murmur from the first night, “maybe next time”, when he grasped his hand, his slack lips and dark eyes, and holds tighter.

Alexander shivers under him.

And inside him, a fire starts.

This shouldn’t be so exciting to a general of an army; shouldn’t be so pleasing to take power over his subordinate, who is already given into his power by his rank and station. But by night, Hamilton is in command, his lithe body and skilled mouth keeping Washington leashed and bound in pleasure, and to take control once more, on his terms… oh, it shouldn’t be as intoxicating as it is.

So when Hamilton’s free hand runs to his cheek, fingers now warm, Washington captures it, too, and shifts his weight to hold both his wrists crossed over his head with one palm. Alexander moans, bows up, tugs at his grasp - and stills, breathing fast.

“Sir,” he says again after a short moment. Washington hums in thought, and then kisses him, finally.

And the fire flares.

The mouth he watches so often as Hamilton speaks, as he bites his quill, as he licks his lips over dinner - this mouth now falls open under the slightest pressure, inviting and warm. Washington is now used to Alexander’s kisses, long and wicked, with nips and licks and bites. But it also means that he knows his tricks, and uses them back - teases the tongue with his own, nips at the bottom lip, scratches with his teeth, and with each touch, sounds of wonder and pleasure roll from Alexander’s mouth into his.

He only takes this mouth fully when he can’t stop himself anymore - when small touches and sweet teasing can’t quench the thirst he’s developed for his taste. Only then, Washington kisses Alexander deep; only then, he lets the boy take him in.

Alexander’s arms struggle in his grasp, but Washington doesn’t let go, and Alexander moans into his lips, his body arches, his thighs fall apart. There’s something different in his voice, and Washington finds himself enjoying it, this struggle and surrender and struggle again, the power he discovers over his little commander.

So he remembers more tricks, and launches a campaign.

From Hamilton’s lessons he knows how much a man can do with only his mouth and fingers, and so he does, to the body taut and undulating as he has it pinned down with a knee between the thighs and a palm on the wrists, until Alexander has to the twist his neck to muffle his moans in the crook of Washington’s elbow. But then, his hips surge up, his hardness pressing into Washington’s stomach, insistent. And when Washington pays it no heed, Alexander turns to him.

“Sir. Please,” he says, not really asking, but demanding, with another sharp thrust of narrow hips. And oh, Washington would love to comply. He has discovered, over the number of night trysts they had, that he quite enjoys the feeling of another's member under his palm, the pulse and the heat and the moist on the head. Or maybe it's just Alexander he enjoys, his soft moans and sighs and movements, him losing some small bits of control he holds otherwise over himself, in work and training and polite intercourse, making it look easy but never really letting himself go.

But sometimes you have to go against your own wishes to instill discipline; and so he holds the boy's hips down, looks at Alexander with reproach.

“Tsk, my boy. Behave.”

Alexander knocks his head to the side, with that air of delighted surprise he gets when his diligent student does something he didn’t teach him. Tugs at his hands again, tries to free from the palm on his hip.

“What if I don’t, sir?” he asks with a small, cheeky smile.

Washington shakes his head. This boy is a handful, day or night.

“I will have to find you a fitting punishment,” he says. Alexander grins, for some reason excited by this. Somehow, Washington feels that the boy is getting the upper hand again; unsettled by this, he runs a thumb over a hip bone and lets him go, pushing himself up on both hands.

“I'm displeased that my best officer is seeking punishment for his misbehavior when he could seek reward for his discipline,” he says looking down on Alexander who bites his bottom lip.

“Oh,” he says, thoughtful. And glances up from under his lashes. “What my reward would be, then, if I do as you say?”

“This is for me to decide and for you to learn when I do so”, Washington replies, hiding the fact that he haven’t thought so far yet under the stern tone. Alexander looks intrigued; the general might need to put some thought into it, now, and for the next time.

Alexander stretches slightly, arms still above his head, thighs spread invitingly, and nods.

“I will behave, sir.’

Washington hums in acknowledgement but continues to only watch him, feasting his eyes on the beautiful boy under him, hair a halo on the pillow, a lovely flush on his face and neck and chest. In a minute, Alexander shifts and asks, “Sir? What would you like me to do?”

Washington has to laugh at that. Hamilton can’t even wait for a minute before demanding orders. It’s his luck that the general finds it endearing instead of enraging.

“Be still,” he says, and leans down to continue his previous ministrations.

“But sir! Your Excellency!” Hamilton exclaims in a few more minutes, when it becomes clear that Washington isn’t going to hurry. The general raises his head a fraction from where he explores the boy’s chest, firm pectorals and pebbled nipples.

“Be quiet, Alexander,” he reminds him.

This time, Hamilton decides that obedience is too much for him.

His legs wrap around Washington’s waist; his hands embrace the general’s shoulders, dig into his hair. He rubs himself into the man above him, brings him down upon himself and takes his weight easily, with a groan of pleasure. Washington struggles to get up, but the boy doesn’t let him go, twisted around him like a vine around a tree. There are lips at his ear, tickling and nipping; a sharp scrape of teeth and the voice, “Isn't this better?”

It is.

But Washington growls, and pushes up, grasping Alexander's wrists again. The little bastard only laughs.

“Oh, my general, are you angry with me?” he taunts, a flash of teeth in the twilight. His body arches sinuously, pressing his heated groin into Washington's. He can't but respond with a thrust of his own, much as he hates giving the boy what he so insolently takes without permission.

“Weren't you going to behave?” he chides. Hamilton grins.

“I changed my mind”, he says, and rocks up again.

With a snarl he didn't expect from himself, Washington pushes his hands into the pillow, presses his hips down again.

“So you choose punishment over reward,” he says, low, and Alexander shivers, eyes wide and dark.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Oh, yes.“

Washington stills for a moment, thinking. And then smiles slowly, closed lips and just a glint of teeth between.

He lets Hamilton’s hands go. He pushes his knees wider instead, presses closer, leans lower. Rocks forward, giving Alexander’s cock some pressure, from his stomach, his groin, his thigh. Enough for a moan, for hands flying to his shoulders, for eyes closing sweetly; not enough for more, as Alexander discovers soon. But when he tries to take more Washington holds him down, for who knows which time this night.

“Let this be my lesson to you, my boy,” Washington murmurs into his ear. “If you behave for me, you are rewarded. If you don't… isn't the lack of reward a punishment in itself?“

“Oh,” Alexander gasps next to his cheek. Washington kisses the spot behind his ear, ghosts a hand down his stomach, next to his cock, but doesn’t touch it. Instead, he grasps himself, starts working his own hardness in the tight space between their stomachs. “Oh!” Alexander shifts immediately, trying to look, to touch - but Washington doesn’t let him, catches his hand and this time, entwines their fingers, gentle but firm. His small groans of pleasure spill into Alexander’s ear.

It only takes another minute before Alexander says in a pleading tone, “Sir. Your excellency. Please. Please…”

Washington often finds himself in the mood to indulge him by night, as he never does by day. He would love to fulfill his young lover’s every wish. But Alexander has also taught him, by personal example, that sometimes wishes are better fulfilled by refusing to indulge, and so he doesn’t give an inch until Alexander starts promising to behave, to be good, oh, your excellency, sir, just let him… take him… please…

Alexander’s cock is right next to his own, flush with his stomach, ready; Washington grazes it with his knuckles from time to time, making Alexander beg that much sweeter. It is an easy reach to collect it into his hand; as an experiment, Washington tries to do so without letting go of his own member. Gives them a stroke, thrusts once in his fist.

“Oh-h,” he says, and “Ah-h,” comes from Alexander. The boy's legs flex involuntarily, and flesh slides against flesh, hot velvety skin and calloused fingers.

Too calloused, he feels, now that another’s gentle skin is under his palm; and Alexander confirms his thoughts, whimpers “Too dry,” wiggles his hand free and reaches for Washington’s, to drag it to his mouth, and licks, an onslaught of the fast, wet tongue, greedy moan when he picks away the taste of the first moisture from them both.

Washington groans and thrusts his hips forward; flesh slides against flesh, again, caught between the hot press of their bodies. Alexander makes a sound so loud that Washington pushes the palm already covering his mouth down, muffling him.

The boy's eyes open wide, and the next moan is louder still, and his tongue works in a frenzy.

Oh what fresh hell. The fire flares again, at the sight of Alexander captured under him, his clever mouth silenced for once, and not in a way that makes Washington his prisoner instead. The general smiles. His commander, stripped of command; his teacher, ready for a lesson.

Washington rolls his hips again. Not enough pressure for a quick release, but just enough for the build up that would make it this much sweeter. He gasps, and so does Alexander, wetting his palm again.

Washington rocks them this way until it becomes a torture to himself, until Alexander's legs clench his sides in the futile attempts to hasten him, until the boy tries to push his hand away, down where it's needed, and when Washington doesn't comply, he tries to bite. Washington only grasps down harder. “Patience is rewarded, my boy,” he reminds, and Alexander closes his eyes.

He takes his hand away when his own desire threatens to burn him from the inside; wraps it, now wet and slick, around his and his lover’s hardness. He has to bury his moan in Alexander's mouth, drink the boy's voice, too. Alexander brings his hands to his shoulders, claws at his skin, forgetting himself, but is allowed to do so because Washington can't refuse himself this touch. He’s not allowed to talk, however, not until they spill, one after another - very, very soon.

Coming down from the high, Washington gets up slowly to get a wet cloth, and looks at Alexander, boneless beneath him. There's something sharp in the boy's eyes watching him from under heavy lids. Washington has a feeling that he’s been outplanned.

He finds he doesn't mind. After all, even if there are more defeats in his campaign than victories, it doesn’t matter as long as he wins the war. And he will learn from his little commander how to win this kind of wars.

Cleaned and settling down for the night, in the blankets warmed up by their mutual heat, but also soaked in their scents - so hard to sleep in them alone, now - Washington brushes a strand of hair from Alexander’s temple. The boy is sleepy, looking sated. At this sight, the general feels like a student complimented by his teacher for job well done.

He still asks, suddenly unsure, seeking a confirmation he rarely requires otherwise, “Was this to your liking, my boy?”

Alexander glances up, smiles slowly, then stretches a bit like a cat.

“Oh yes, Your Excellency”, he says, leaning in, wrapping himself tighter around the man. “Exactly to my liking.”


End file.
